


Singing a Song Of. . . .

by beetle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Crush, Awkward Romance, Awkwardness, Cole is Leslie Caron, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/F, Failboats, Hopeful Ending, Humor, Inspired by Music, Loneliness, M/M, Musical References, My brain is the carnival. . . ., No Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC Spoilers, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Slash, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Medication, Short & Sweet, Slight Canon Divergence, Slow Romance, ZITHER! is Mel Ferrer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 15:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21460531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Summary:On every tree there sits a bird./ And every bird I've ever heard/ Could break my heart without a word,/ Singing a song of love.Written for thePrompt #473 ~ Tremble. It went a bit over the allotted five hundred words max, however. . . .
Relationships: Cremisius "Krem" Aclassi/Maryden Halewell, Female Cadash/Lace Harding, Lace Harding/Female Inquisitor, ZITHER!/Alphonse, ZITHER!/Cole
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	Singing a Song Of. . . .

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: Rarepair. Set during the Exalted Council in _Trespasser_ DLC. Mostly DLC-compliant. Spoilers. Mention (nongraphic) of physically and emotionally abusive past relationship, and the resulting violent separation. Based loosely on [Lili (1953)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lili).

“[A song of love is a sad song,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eLIUzUnoomY)

[Hi-Lili, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eLIUzUnoomY)

[A song of love is a song of woe. . . .](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eLIUzUnoomY)

[Don't ask me how I know.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eLIUzUnoomY)

[A song of love is a sad song,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eLIUzUnoomY)

[For I have loved and it's so.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eLIUzUnoomY)

[Hi-Lili, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eLIUzUnoomY)

[Hi-Lili, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo. . . .](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eLIUzUnoomY)”

Suddenly awake and aware—if abominably hungover—the moment he hears a strange chuff of displaced air, he groggily notes the telltale tingle-chill of spirit-magic all over his skin. It’s rather like the hinterlands of a particularly harrowing soul-journey into the Fade, and is more than equal to doing battle with the lingering remnants of his surely well-earned hangover.

As usual, Remon “ZITHER!” deRagarossa has had a _night_ of it. Undoubtedly. And at least most of a morning, as well. Itself not so surprising an occurrence at an Exalted Council. Especially considering the gathering of Southern Thedas’s royalty, nobility, and of the Inquisition’s _biggest_ of wigs, including Andraste’s Herald, Inquisitor Malika Cadash; Ambassador Josephine Montilyet; and Commander Cullen Rutherford—plus, many Chantry notables, as well.

On such an occasion, no expense or resource has been spared, thus opportunities for overindulgence are thick on the ground. Especially for an internationally famous comeback-kid, such as [ZITHER! the Virtuoso](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Zither).

_Ugh_, the aforementioned Virtuoso thinks blearily, then groans and yawns, the latter turning into a stretch as he grimaces at the repugnant taste of his own breath.

Rather, his yawn starts turning into a stretch, then is immediately halted when he half-falls off something far too stiff and edge-y to be his nice, soft bed. Or even _someone else’s_ nice, soft bed, for that matter.

_Odd. . . . _is the _second_ thing Remy thinks as he flails himself stable once more, yelping—in perfect pitch, as ever. And perfectly truthful, as well. Because what little he’s assessed of his circumstance on this morning or afternoon certainly is _that_: odd, even upon initial noting.

Jangled, yet still barely awake as he semi-rights himself, he’s also—he realizes moments after he’s safely sprawled once more on his immutable, uncomfortable resting surface, and with more than a little chagrin—_clothed and covered_, but for his right glove . . . and his mask.

“Oh, the blasted, buggering _bother_,” he groans, precisely on-key. He’s not hurting for discretionary funds, of late, but having to replace one of his signature—enchanted—masks is always a nuisance. If only because even a rush-crafting of a ZITHER!-mask can take half a fortnight.

And if he wishes to be _reimbursed_ for the lost mask, that means going through Agent Requisitions. And _that_ notable expense would surely find its way across his penultimate superior’s desk.

The Inquisition’s Spymaster (and Remy’s close friend), hides in plain sight, behind mistaken assumptions. She, like her former mentor, knows when to work hard, when to work smart, when to work _sneaky_, and how to excel at all three. All at once, even. She’s every inch a professional and Remy admires her. He’s also inordinately _fond_ of her. He considers her approval and respect near-indispensable. Thus, the thought of weathering Spymaster Harding’s gentle, yet wry amusement at _ZITHER!_’s latest dilly-turned-pickle is . . . rather mortifying to him, even though ZITHER!-escapades have long-been known to crack that pleasant-neutral façade of _the Spymaster_ and make _Lace Harding belly-laugh_.

(And Remy knows, better than most, how rarely Spymaster Harding gets to be _unshielded_—relatively—and relaxed. To simply _be a regular person_ without having to _prove she is one_, first and foremost. Some supposedly intelligent and observant peers and adversaries of Harding’s tend to underestimate and _literally overlook her_ for being not only a surfacer, but a _culturally_ _Fereldan_ one, to boot. And never mind that _Andraste’s Herald, the bloody Inquisitor_ Southern Thedas so admires, fears, and envies—and Harding’s long-time lover—is _also_ a surfacer. Not that the Inquisitor’s romantic ties are known beyond a tight inner circle at Skyhold.)

But Harding’s disarming, homespun—well-timed—charm and warmth makes it all-but impossible for Remy to begrudge her _any_ laughs, even ones at his—at _ZITHER!’s_ expense.

Nonetheless, Remy supposes he should at least get about a search for the missing mask. He’s rarely lost such integral parts of his armor and livelihood, outside of life-and-death struggles or retreats. And, of course, the one time he’d let that pretty, little Tantervale lordling keep one as a souvenir.

But then, the lad had certainly _earned_ said souvenir, beyond all doubt. Remy could hardly call that expenditure a _loss_. Not when it’d taken most of a week for him to catch his breath properly after that memorable assignation, never mind being able to walk normally.

_This _situation, however, is an uncommon, and particularly disaffecting state of affairs for Remy: to _have been_ so souced and out-of-it as to _lose his armor_. And _now_, to be so bare-faced yet _obviously_ not in the privacy of his own suite, or even a temporary paramour’s, is. . . .

When _ZITHER_’s not ‘at home,’ he’s _always masked_. Always. His mask is more than one sort of armor for him, and utterly integral for many reasons—some of them literally life-saving. Thus, he’s _always_ _armored_ when in public and when acting as one of the Inquisition’s many agents.

_It’s quite possible my mask is near or even under whatever table or bit of furniture on which I’m currently a-sprawl_, Remy thinks optimistically, as he clocks vague, but unalarming aches that come from sleeping on . . . whatever he’s been using as a pallet for hours on end.

Upon deeper consideration, though, he rather doubts his mask will be so easily found. Nothing in his life, but for his talent and ambition, have ever come easily for him—and even there, the ease has always been in the inclination, not the required perseverance.

Grumbling, Remy sighs just a touch dramatically. He can feel sunshine on his face, and a slight but warm breeze disturbing the air of his environs. Distant, is the sound of passersby talking and occasionally laughing, like reunited friends and comrades. No doubt, the day is balmy and lovely and sunny and shiny . . . and Remy can hear blasted _birds_ warbling as if their little, feathered lives depend on joyous, life-affirming song.

As ever, after a few days back, he’s _already_ bored-to-tears of and irritated with his pleasant, surface-pretty homeland. The Exalted Council has barely got under way and he heartily wishes he were anywhere but Val Royeaux, on **_ready_**-status for the Inquisition. Or, that if he _had_ to be on **_ready_**, he could at least be waiting to slay evil with music, magic, and _flair, _as usual.

And, perhaps, assigned to Antiva, once more. He could think of worse ways to earn a living and a reputation as a performer-cum-mage-cum-demonhunter, than half a year spent traveling Antiva, bedding gorgeous and deadly nobles, spies, and assassins, while collecting sumptuous leather clothing and pickling his liver with flirty-light lambruscos. . .

Even spending days at a time fighting for his life—and wishing for even just a puddle in which to rinse off the blood and ichor that attends the hunting and slaying of demons, abominations, darkspawn, and _maleficarum_—in-between Antiva’s many delightful debauchments and divertissements is far better than Orlesian High Society and its callous, even murderous _Game_.

Thoughts of his environs, his bloody _homeland_, make Remy wince and groan unhappily, as always. And they awaken him enough to turn his mind to other, pragmatic matters. He hopes he’d secured his lute safely before . . . whatever nonsense he’s gotten himself tangled in had commenced. He’s fairly certain that he _probably_ had, as securing his lute is one of his earliest engrained and least flexible habits. It’s almost always been: _lute first_, then drinking or flirting or fucking or . . . whatever.

Much like a more standard mage with a staff, a virtuoso must always make his musical instrument—his weapon and often his fortune—the _sine qua non_. And Remy _always has_.

Thus, lute _probably_ taken care of, Remy is left to drift back to prior concern—his _only_ other one, so far as he knows or cares to know, before some judiciously applied hair-of-the-nug and a massage.

“Where’na Maker’s Blood’s m’mask?” he slurs on the back of another low, but harmonious groan, all of him twitching and twinging as he tenses in preparation to sit up. He soon sprawls again, limp and as useless as an overcooked noodle. After another half-arsed attempt at cudgeling himself into movement, he sighs and braces himself for opening his eyes, at least.

Upon taking a deep, fortifying breath—a less painful and nauseating undertaking than he’d expected—he’s instantly wrapped ‘round in that whiff of Fade-magic again: burnt incense, crushed herbs, ozone, and wilderness_. Wildness_.

But also, something bittersweet. Wildness tempered by the strong memory of tameness and civilization, all caramelized sugar . . . or scorched honey.

Remy frowns at that sweet-sad-arcane scent. Despite his aching head, he opens his eyes fully, damn the consequences. He hisses at the spears of bright, midmorning agony that dart in to assault him through some Maker-damned window.

Wincing, he also absently notes that his mouth tastes particularly of . . . candlewax . . . and the soured remains of his favorite wine—a _delightfully_ peppy, and little-known Antivan _Lambrusco_ he’s recently discovered.

And of Serault glass crystals. . . .

Huffing with impatience and exasperation aimed entirely at himself, Remy starts mentally saying _adieu_ to his discretionary sovereigns. He’s probably been chewing on his favorite doublet in his sleep. Again. Finding someone who’ll reattach or replace the enchanted crystals on the back—which spell out **_ZITHER!_** and are sewn-on with special arcane stitchery that’d put most mage-armor to shame**_—_**without a great deal of laughter or mockery, will be _quite_ a pricey travail. This, Remy knows from experience.

But the signs of Fade-magic—

No distractions or annoyances can stand long against the growing sense-evidence of magic. Though he’d taken the scent, taste, and _feel_ of it as souvenirs of a particularly vivid dream, that the evidence has lingered this far into his waking is . . . telling.

And, Remy’s life of late taken into account, perhaps _alarming_.

Whatever being has caused this evidence is _still here_. It’s still present and . . . observant. _Observing Remy_ with keen focus and curiosity, from far closer than Remy likes.

“I’m sorry, _Messere_ Virtuoso. This . . . is not how it was supposed to go, _not at all,_” an unfamiliar, breathless-dreamy-soft tenor—like something from the arse-end of a sad lullaby—apologizes in earnest-fast Trade Tongue.

This confirmation that he isn’t alone doesn’t startle Remy even slightly, though it certainly awakens him fully—puts him on a calm and familiar alert which has been finely honed after nearly two years of being an agent with the Inquisition.

He’s long-since learned that he doesn’t need his lute to kill or dispel Fade or Fade-touched creatures. He’s killed dangerous wights fresh out of worse hangovers than this—and notably dispatched a Terror, moments after being concussed, by humming the first bars of Spirit Blade under his breath. Followed, of course, by an instinctual and well-timed swing with his manifested Blade.

And backing that swing with a barely aware, but _potent_ warbling of the Power Chord had made short work of the Terror and saved Remy’s life.

Though, the knowledge had been bitter, indeed, that such instinct had come less from fighting with the Inquisition, and more from having had an iron-fisted Templar (and ridiculously controlling manager) as one’s increasingly obsessive and abusive bedmate for more than a decade.

Remy deRagarossa had long-since become used to defending himself fresh-out of sound unconsciousness. In fact, the differences between the night _before_ Remy’s lover had found out the Circles of Magi had rebelled, and the night _of_ his finding out the Circles had rebelled had been few. That main difference being . . . Remy had finally realized he was fighting for his very life and had actually done so. Had fought for _keeps_.

Rather, he’d fought to be _let go_. And well-enough, that _Knight-Lieutenant Dieter Alphonse_ had never come after Remy or set other Templars on him.

Nevertheless, Remy still keeps that instinct and ability to defend or even fight out of a dead-sleep close and handy. He’s never had cause to regret doing so.

But whatever’s making itself known to him, now, isn’t interested in harming him. _Yet_, anyway.

He squints his eyes open again and tries to turn his head to his right. Toward the voice.

“It was to be a mistake, you see, but one you would both have enjoyed. Only . . . the mistake was righted by _another_ mistake. A _very good mistake_. He was made a better man by the Inquisitor’s faith and the Ambassador’s love, so he spared all their lives at the cost of his _old one_. Now, _everyone_ has new lives. The one who wasn’t meant to be is all that there is, as far as _she’s_ concerned. So, _you_ never _really_ stood a chance at winning her heart. Not even for just the night, I imagine. I . . . I’m sorry, for that.”

The voice falls silent for a long beat during which Remy feels and smells the Fade-magic intensify. That and the gentle gust of a cool breath on his cheek makes him pause halfway through—still—painstakingly attempting to turn his head.

“Sorry,” the voice repeats with quiet frustration and fervency. “I’m still not very good at being around people. Or at . . . _being people._”

Yes. _Far_ closer. And it’d apparently had apples and oatcakes for breakfast.

Briefly noticing his own empty, suddenly complaining stomach, Remy would be ready to start flinging spells—as well as _himself_ off whatever torture-device he’d accepted as his bed—were he not utterly and entirely discombobulated and nonplussed.

_Well, one presumes that _if_ it’s an Abomination, I’d be dead or possessed, by now. Perhaps it’s simply a spirit? A Spirit of . . . Curiosity? Wait—_is_ curiosity even a virtue? Considering what-all it does to cats?_

Off his usual game, Remy resumes turning toward the voice and presence, and blinks until his eyes adjust somewhat. He finds himself staring into vastly overgrown, cornsilk-colored fringe that near-completely obscures a round, faded-blue gaze. Below the fringe and blue is a solemn lack of smile _and_ the apotheosis of grave ponderance.

And _all of it_ is under the largest, ugliest sunhat Remy has _ever_ seen, and _he’s_ been to Dairsmuid several times in recent years.

“Ah,” Remy huffs out, then clears his throat. Those faded-sad blue eyes, like a spring sky after heavy rain, blink slowly, almost mournfully. But they’re hopeful, too. As if the person to whom they belong is just waiting on tenterhooks to find out how he can atone or fix or redeem.

Himself . . . _and_ the notoriously dissolute _ZITHER!_, no doubt. For despite his observer reeking of wild magic and wild _wildness_—of ancient, inherently _inhuman_ strangeness—the sad innocence of those obscured eyes is too sincere and too lacking in guile to be malicious.

But the road to the Abyss is likely _paved_ with intentions, and few enough could probably be labeled _bad_. At least at first.

Groaning once again, but with sudden, soul-deep ennui and apathy, Remy turns away, unfocusing his light-dazzled gaze as it settles on the cream-and-cyan ceiling. After a few moments of squinting, he at last knows where he is: one of the less-frequented salons on an Upper Level, which he’d discovered simply by following his nose and his instinct for out-of-the-way places.

Or, perhaps, simply his instinct for finding trouble.

Remy closes his eyes. “_You are . . . not entirely human, are you?_”

“Not yet, _messere_, no. Not entirely,” the voice admits, soft and sad, followed by a tiny sigh. Then a slightly gasped breath in. “Oh! But I’m trying _very_ hard to be! As hard as I can, every day! Warden Thom says that I ‘mean well,’ and that that’s better than most humans. And just yesterday, Varric said that though I still come across as oddly intense, I don’t seem nearly as _intensely odd!_ Nor as ‘eerie and stalkerish’!” Another sigh and a delighted laugh. “And Sera hasn’t called me _it_ to my face or anyone else’s in nearly a season!”

Remy frowns deeper as puzzle-pieces start coming together to form a picture—the only one that, in light of everything, makes anything like sense.

Lips pursed, and brow furrowed, he blinks up at the ceiling. “_Ah. Right. So_,” he mumbles while clearing his dry, hoarse throat. He switches from his almost-native Orlesian to the Trade Tongue, mindful of imitating his observer’s earthy-burring Fereldan accent. It’s old hat, by now, for Remy to borrow the language, accents, intonations, and inflections of those nearest to him. “You’d be _Cole_, then, yes?”

“Oh! _Yes_, messere!” Remy’s observer—_Cole_—exclaims, breathless and nearly giggling. “Please allow me to introduce myself: I’m called _Cole_! And _you’re_ the _Virtuoso_!”

Wincing and licking dry lips, Remy does not heave a sigh, but it’s a close thing. When he manages to turn his head again, Cole’s big, blue eyes are wider than ever behind their cornsilk fringe and he’s very nearly smiling. After a few moments, in spite of everything, so is Remy. “Well . . . I’m certainly _one_ of them.”

“Er, yes? I suppose? But . . . your music makes the heart of me _pound and soar_, _messere_! So, how could _any other_ the Virtuoso be _my_ the Virtuoso?” Cole breathes with awed reverence, all apples and oats in Remy’s unmasked face. “Maryden’s music is generous and warm. It makes me glad to be human, such as I am. But _she_ is not a _the Virtuouso_ nor _my_ the Virtuoso. _Your_ music makes me feel . . . bright and inspired and _free_. Restless. More human _and_ less, at the same time. As if this body is both too much and not nearly enough for all that I feel and all that I _am_. In the presence of your music, I am uncontained and joyous! _Overflowing_! Free. . . !” A musing pause. “Though I’m not _yet_ human enough to understand how one gets ninety-nine pints of ale on a wall, or why such a feat would even be necessary. But I _very much_ enjoyed hearing you sing about it, last night! I’d enjoy hearing you sing about anything!”

Remy tries on a wider smile, though it feels a bit flat. He’s certainly received such compliments before—all his life, in fact—though not necessarily so strangely and fervently worded. “_Merci beauc_—ah, _thank you kindly, serah_. It’s always revivifying to hear so stridently from a fan . . . even mere moments after opening my tired, hungover eyes. . . .”

“No, thank _you!_” A big, blue blink precedes a big, trembling, somewhat dazed smile. “I’m also _very_ glad your over-face comes off! I . . . wasn’t sure it would, but it _did_, when you rolled over in the night!” Another big, blue blink and the face moves even closer. Each word that follows is practically bussed onto the tip of Remy’s prominent nose. “I _like_ your under-face _much_ better—the nose and mouth aren’t scary at all _and_ you look so much friendlier! _This_ face is easy and _makes sense _. . . like cabbages and potatoes!”

Remy blinks. Opens his mouth to speak, then closes it once more, along with his achy eyes. It’s not the first time he’s heard _that either_, alas. Thankfully, a firmly affixed full-mask does more than provide certain magical defenses and facilitate the playing of the Game. It can also make even the most common, cabbages-and-potatoes looks far less damning than they’d otherwise be—even in beauty-obsessed Val Royeaux.

As he lays back on his erstwhile bed he sighs genteelly. He has a suspicion he may actually have been taking his repose on a baby grand _pianoforte_ of the sort to be found in many salons made available to the Inquisition for the duration of their stay in Val Royeaux. He has vague memories of the night before . . . of plinking out the notes of one of his more obscure, intricate songs on such an instrument.

_Ah, yes. . . ._

He’d done so, he recalls, to impress a handsome and intriguing lady minstrel he’d been of a mind to bed. Mary-something-or-other. He _also_ remembers that the lieutenant of the Bull’s Chargers had shown up, too . . . the scrappy, irrepressible Tevinter with the boyish, irresistible grin.

As ever, thrilled to improvise—to turn a potential duet into a _trio_—Remy had quickly adjusted his plan so as to include the rakish mercenary in the evening’s divertissement.

Alas, the minstrel and the mercenary had been of a different mind—one that’d become apparent when Remy had looked up from his plinking to see the pair making wondering, shy eyes at each other. The air between them had been practically throbbing with mutual and exclusive interest so strong, just witnessing it felt a bit like voyeurism. And not necessarily the fun kind.

Remy recalls making his excuses to be away from the pair—never having been one to attempt to infiltrate a pending infatuation. Feeling strangely demoralized and lonely, he’d gone to his quarters to put up his lute, then gone to seek his favorite _Lambrusco_—two unopened bottles of the stuff. But, though too lonely to return to his empty quarters, he’d also been in no fit state to be around others.

Thus, Remy had returned to the salon and its well-tuned _pianoforte_. The salon had, of course, been empty as well, by then. But for the faithful baby grand: a noble and solid instrument with the soul of a poignant, but spritely zephyr. If ever he could choose another instrument and weapon besides his trusty lute—and assuming he could somehow make it portable and convenient for both travel and battling against demons, darkspawn, abominations, and _maleficarum_—it would be a _pianoforte_.

Ever the self-indulgent whinger, Remy had proceeded to play a drunken medley of his greatest hits well into the night, intermittently draining both bottles of _Lambrusco_.

It’d been a surprisingly fine evening despite its depressing start, all told. Despite the emptiness of the salon, Remy had felt as if he’d an audience, nonetheless. As if the _shadows, themselves_, had been listening. _Appreciative_ shadows.

_No, not shadows_, Remy now understands, opening his eyes once again, to rainy skies obscured by cornsilk fringe.

“Cabbages and potatoes _do_ make sense, _serah_, yes,” he finally agrees, clearing his throat and wondering if his erstwhile audience would be terribly put out if he lost consciousness again for a brief hiatus. Only until the servants came along to sweep Remy out of the salon with any other dust and detritus. . . .

“Oh, _messere_,” Cole says, his big smile fading and his big eyes getting bigger. And sadder. “I . . . I don’t know who they were who made you lose your saltshaker, but I _am_ sorry for your loss,” he confesses in a mumble, his mouth downturned in a tiny, devastated frown. It’s not very different from his earlier, shyer smile . . . more of an implied facial expression, than an actual one. “I know it’s _not_ your fault, _messere_. And _I’ll_ help you find the shaker, if you like—I’m _very_ good at finding things!”

“Errr . . . _merci_, Cole. . . .” Remy closes his eyes tight and levers his arm up so he can pinch the bridge of his nose. The hangover headache that’d been staved-off by his unusually and at-first unremembered circumstances is starting to demand his attention.

Mere seconds after adopting his ineffective stopgap, a cool, callused, careful hand settles on Remy’s forehead, the thumb gently stroking his right eyebrow.

He instantly stiffens, and the hand and thumb freeze for a few moments, before continuing their soothing to the sound of a melancholy sigh.

“Even though you’re people, you’re wilder than most wild-things. You expect cruelty, danger, and treachery from even the kind touches. _Especially_ from the kind touches,” Cole notes, his voice light but his tone heavy. “You hurt _so much_ sometimes, and _have been_ hurt so terribly . . . and still, you take that pain and make it into _beauty_ for the world. For me.” A solemn beat passes and the hand leaves. It’s instantly replaced by soft, dry lips pressing a lingering kiss between Remy’s brows. “If I could, I would turn pain into beauty for you, too, _messere_. But I have no ear or voice for songs . . . not even the ones that echo in my spirit whenever I hear your voice . . . and now, when I see your true-face. Those songs are _all_ about you, and how wonderful and beautiful you are . . . except for the ones that are about sunsets and snowfalls and shared laughter. But I don’t _need_ to sing _those ones_. I _need_ to sing _you_ and the way you make me feel. I need to sing the beauty of you _to you_, the way _you_ sing the beauty of being human to _me_. Sometimes . . . I think I might tingle and ache and burn until I’m consumed by that need . . . and even my own tears wouldn’t be enough to quench that fire. . . .”

Startled, Remy opens his eyes. Cole—who’d been leaning over him, apparently—is straightening up and turning away, looking even sadder than ever. He takes a deep, slow breath and as he does, that Fade-magic scent grows exponentially. Just as he starts to exhale . . . another obvious sigh . . . Remy bolts upright, despite his aching, fuzzy-again head.

“Wait!” He reaches out to Cole, his left hand stopping just shy of the other man’s shoulder.

The exhale happens, but Cole _does not_ vanish in a flash, as he’s been rumored to frequently do. He inclines his face back toward Remy, but not enough that his profile isn’t completely obscured by the huge, hideous sunhat.

Taking a deep, slow breath of his own, Remy allows his hand to settle on Cole’s shoulder. It’s bony and hard and, unlike his hand, very warm even through the rough weave of his tunic.

Cole’s indrawn breath is very loud in the suddenly apprehensive silence.

Squeezing Cole’s shoulder and using it for balance and leverage, Remy eases and winces his way to his feet with a minimum of staggering and dizziness. Once he feels fairly steady, he meets Cole’s gaze—looking markedly down to do so, but that’s no surprise . . . being purportedly of Southern Rivaini _and_ Anders descent, Remy’s taller than practically anyone who isn’t a Qunari—and holds it with unhidden curiosity and unbidden familiarity. Much like he’s still holding Cole’s shoulder. The shorter man doesn’t seem either impressed or intimidated, merely downcast and girded . . . as if awaiting some harsh criticism or rebuff.

Remy doesn’t know what he’d meant to say, mere seconds ago. And he’s not entirely sure of what he means to say _now_. He doesn’t know if it’s at all true or could be, someday and some-way. He only knows that he hopes with all his heart it will be helpful to the open and receptive heart standing so nakedly and anxiously before him.

He hopes that more than he’s hoped _anything_, in a long time.

**_*_**_“Répétez après moi, s'il vous plait,”_ he commands gently, then clears his throat. It’s the only warm-up he usually needs, unless he’s performing for large halls or stadia. And he needs neither magic nor training to recall and replicate the first bit of Orlesian he’d ever learned, even before he’d been brought to Orlais.

Learned from the unusually kind Templar who’d relieved Remon deRagarossa’s fearfully devout family of their mage-born little cuckoo:

** _**_ ** _“[Une chanson d'amour est une chanson heureuse,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus)_

_ [Hi-Lili, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus) _

_ [Une chanson d'amour est une chanson de joie:](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus) _

_ [Une valse pour garçon et garçon!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus) _

_ [“Une chanson d'amour est une chanson heureuse,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus) _

_ [Car nous sommes amoureux et c'est comme ça!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus) _

_ [Hi-Lili, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus) _

_ [Hi-Lili, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus) _

_ [Hi-Lili, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus) _

_ [Hi-Lili, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus) _ _”_

Remy’s softly resonant tenor—woven-through with nostalgia, bitter-sweetness, and all the fragile hope and faith ZITHER! had learned to hide but of which _Remy deRagarossa_ had _never_ been able to purge himself—fades to gentle-lost and trembling-hopeful stillness and silence. Both remain unbroken for drawn-out moments and when he opens his eyes, it’s to see Cole’s eyes gone wider and wet. There might even be a shine of tears on his pale cheeks. But he’s smiling, huge and firm. Joyous.

“Oh, _messere_!” he sighs happily, then blushes. “But I couldn’t—couldn’t . . . _sing_! Your voice is so _beautiful_, and I . . . I’m not even _a_ minstrel, let alone a _the Virtuouso_! And I’ve already got all the words confused—though, I remember there were waltzes! Oh! Orlesian is _so_ pretty but so _slippery_ in my brain!”

Remy smiles. Then grins. Then _laughs_, giving Cole’s bony shoulder a squeeze before letting go. He turns and bends and, after a moment of searching, retrieves his mask . . . but doesn’t reaffix it, just yet.

Smiling wryly and with a quick, rather unhelpful stretch, he makes for the salon-exit without fanfare or preamble. Cole jogs a bit to catch up, but after that, he has no problem keeping up. Remy takes that as a good sign. The same goes for the occasional bump and brush of Cole’s cool-gentle hand against his own, as they walk.

In Remy’s other hand, his oldest, most precious bit of armor and defense dangles—quite forgotten—by its silken ties.

“The only way to make Orlesian _less_ slippery, _serah_, is exposure and practice. In this case, I think rote and repetition learning must come first, then—with familiarity and time, comes the passion and proper pitch, yes? **_***_**_Répétez après moi encore, s'il vous plaît: Une chanson d'amour est une chanson heureuse,/ _Hi-Lili, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo. . . !”

And long after the two . . . birds and their song have flown their tree, the branches still resonate—still _tremble_ with anticipation and hope. With _music_ . . . and with joy.

END

* * *

**TRANSLATIONS:**

  1. ***“**Repeat after me, please:”
  2. ****“**[A song of love is a gay song,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus)  
[Hi-Lili, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus)  
[A song of love is a song of joy:](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus)  
[A waltz for boy and boy!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus)  
[A song of love is a gay song,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus)  
[For we’re in love and it's so!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus)  
[Hi-Lili, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus)  
[Hi-Lili, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus)  
[Hi-Lili, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus)  
[Hi-Lili, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus)”
  3. *********“**Repeat after me again, please: ‘A song of love is a gay song,/ Hi-Lili, Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo. . . !’”

**Author's Note:**

> **[PROMPT]** “_Tremble_.”  
  
  
  
**Thanks:**  
  
Firstly, to [Lili (1953)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lili), and the heart-wrenching performances of [Leslie Caron](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leslie_Caron) and [Mel Ferrer](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mel_Ferrer). And also, THANK YOU, to anyone giving this a read (and hopefully a comment and/or kudo :-).  
  
  
  
**Resources & References for this fic:**  
  
[Lili (1953)](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0046000/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1)  
"The Puppets sing to Lili." Mary Swike: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus (lyrics source)  
Geniuslyrics.com: “Hi Lili Hi Lo”  
Dragon Age Wiki  
Google Translate (for “Orlesian” lyrics)  
  
**Powered by:**  
  
**"Hi Lili, hi Lo" - LESLIE CARON (Lyrics on)."** Nelson Doroso, Youtube. January 19, 2019. [2:46] Cena do filme "Lili' (1952). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eLIUzUnoomY  
**"The Puppets sing to Lili."** Mary Swike, Youtube. April 25, 2017. [0:59] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgENZfZatus  
  
  
  
[TUMBLES with the bug](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)! And [PILLOWFORTS with the bug, too](https://www.pillowfort.io/beetle-comma-the)!  



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